The air is hot and silent

and the room is lit

by the yellowed light

of an ever deepening

afternoon.

I look at the leathery works

of dried musings before me,

the volumes

lined up like grizzled elders

on shelves bent under the weight

of doubt,

hardly daring to run my

clumsy, calloused hands

over them

lest they crumble into dust

under the artless weight

of my half-forgotten

question.

Do they contain

mysteries 

and

revelations

and

Everests

of hidden glories,

or are they merely

more of the same

cocksure nonsense

that has led me in

paths grown deep

with the gouges

of my weathered

circular journey?